


Nato a Morte

by feveredsweetness



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character of Faith, Crisis of Faith, Dark Will Graham, Empath Will Graham, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Identity, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Priest AU, Religion, faith - Freeform, s2 and s3 elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 10:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10358703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feveredsweetness/pseuds/feveredsweetness
Summary: In which Hannibal Lecter has previously confessed his sins to Padre Graham, who later comes to feel the sins to be his own and thus, conflicted, deals with his feelings for the good doctor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peppermintquartz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintquartz/gifts).



> A brilliant idea commissioned by my dear friend. Thank you for your vast sea of love and support. <3

Hannibal Lecter sits in the very first pew of the Capella Palatina, hands clasped over his lap, his head tilted up towards the mural of Christ shining down from above, basking his face in golden light, as shadows fill the angled dips of his cheeks and the relaxed lids of his eyes. The distant echoes of footfall funnel through his ears, as the curve of his mouth tugs minutely.  


Padre Graham dips two fingers into the offering of holy water upon his entrance into the chapel before blessing himself in the motion of a cross upon his forehead, sending a silent prayer before proceeding to his daily duties.

His blue eyes skitter throughout the pews as he walks among them, surveying those in prayer and moral contemplation. A sparse spread of lowered crowns amongst those more akin to the rigidity of the marbled columns beside them.

Graham’s gaze travels upwards towards murals of His holiness and the saints, stilling momentarily. Despite the distance, the gaze of Christ sends prickles down the back of the man’s spine, his hair raising on end as sweat begins to gather at the nape of his neck.

Bone and iron flash before the canvas of his eyes.

Suffering. The divinity of elegance.

With his heart sinking to the depths of his gut, blood pounding in that terrible rhythm, Graham catches his sharpened gasp in enough time to mask it as a cough. Attention having never been desirable, he abandons the post of his observance.

An acquired taste, as his last confessant had coined it.

The tempo of his blood heightens in heated measure.

Scraping his teeth against the dry skin of his lower lip, Graham struggles to keep his footing even with the marbled, mosaic floor swaying beneath him; looming closer to him in his feverish state.

_Get it together, Will._

“Padre Graham.” A thick, accented voice greets amicably. A smiles slithers into the corners of the older man’s amber stare as he tenderly watches the priest trip over his own two feet.

“My apologies,” Hannibal croons, rising up to assist the poor young priest regain his balance by gently yet firmly grasping the join of his elbow.

“I should’ve made my presence known earlier. How rude of me.”

Padre Graham chuckles nervously, the rough rasp of it causing the warmth within Hannibal’s eyes to flood, bringing his lips to spread, and revealing glinting teeth; the white crests that breach the ocean’s surface.

“No, no, Doctor Lecter. I was simply adrift when I shouldn’t have been. I apologize.”  
Truthfully, and shockingly so, the mess of a priest finds himself rooted in sincerity. Straightening his glasses, he offers a small smile.

“Please, Padre, call me Hannibal.” The older, well-tailored man gracefully replies. “A man of His holiness, I believe, can never really be lost; he can only find the answers to his soul through divine exploration. Peeking behind the curtain, so to speak.”

Graham’s eyes flick from Hannibal’s to the floor, a blush steadily blossoming up his throat. His jaw points inward as he adjusts his collar, teeth quietly gritting together.

“I wouldn’t call it peeking so much as being…resigned. Resigned to seeing only what He allows, when He allows, and often in a humor most misplaced. Like Lucy and the football.”

“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.” Hannibal muses. “It would be inelegant otherwise.”

“An unsavory flaw in His overall design, yes. To suffer is elegant, and for Him to spare us from its cruel hands would be, as you’ve so said.”

Padre Graham’s mouth flattens into a stern line, as if something inside of him suddenly writhed, constrained by the holy figures surrounding them. 

Hannibal observes this, smugness glimmering as blood toned eyes detect what lies beneath the good priest’s surface, hungrily yearning for its radiant release. 

Graham exhales through his nose, the focus of his visible attention shifting to the upper frames of his glasses as he speaks quietly, yet dignified. 

“Excuse me, Doctor Lecter. I need to tend to those seeking redemption for today.”

“But of course,” he replies, nodding his head politely in understanding; hidden intent sending his pulse dancing in his veins, his heart swelling as he watches the younger man briskly stride away and swiftly enter the confessional, door shut in haste. 

Graham’s eyes scrunch shut until he sees dots of light prick through the images of those caught in the grip of prime suffering, brimming to the point of the overflow, great gouts of blood washing up on him. 

His breath releases in harsh gasps as though God Himself has relinquished him from the womb of Death. 

His pulse flutters along with the lids of his eyes as he allows his frame to slump against the paneled wood of the box confining him; hiding his truth from those more pure than he. 

Warmth pools in his lower belly, his soul momentarily full as thoughts of Hannibal relishing in his murders swirl around him, encasing him in the reflection of who he, himself, really is. Deaths that feel like his own every night in his dreams as he screams awake, rousing his pack of strays, his empathy showing the blood on his soul and hands. 

With an unstable breath, as sweaty fingers twitch and dig into the fabric of his black trousers, he whispers aloud. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.” 

“For a priest, dear Will, that’s quite the moral scandal.”

Graham jolts in his seat, eyes flying open as a crease forms between his brows; his mouth twisting and settling into a bewildered, borderline snarl. 

“Doctor Lecter,” his voice crawls out into the air, treading on uncertainty. 

“Dove sei, Will?” The other’s accented voice slithers through the screen, into the heart of his mind. 

Padre Graham’s breath labors as his eyes close once more. 

“Con te. On the killing grounds on which you prey.” 

This time, Hannibal is the one whose lids close. His tongue swipes across the seam of his lips.

“You find yourself there often,” he states. “Observing on the threshold of participation. You’ve neglected what you are for so long, Will. Denied it of its nourishment and thus, yourself of freedom.” 

Graham nods, teeth once more dragging against the skin of his lower lip, his tongue stealing the bead of iron left afterwards. 

Hannibal doesn’t need to see the priest’s reaction to confirm what he already knows. Instead, he smiles to himself, crossing a leg over the other with his hands clasped and settled upon his lifted knee. 

“What is it you really want, Will? Now that we both share the knowledge of the other.”

“No,” the other objects, a raw snort of laughter following. “You’re in my domain, Doctor Lecter.”

The predator within the older man rumbles in pleasure. 

“Technically, we are in His domain,” Lecter playfully purrs. “Though I’ll indulge you as you are in the throes of indulgence already.”

Padre Graham huffs another laugh, knowing far well that Hannibal always has them in his own personal domain, pursuing the latest train of the game afoot. 

“I’ve let you know me. See me. In that, you’ve seen yourself on the other side of the same coin. I’ve given you a rare gift, Will. I want to stand witness as blood fuels your true self and you are born again in the radiance of your becoming.”

The heat within Graham’s lower abdomen increases and spreads throughout his being. His silence quickens the breath of his other half as tension crackles, charging the air between them. 

“I see myself in the exact same blood in which you live in, baptised, and I,” he swallows dryly, allowing a sharp exhale to pass through him. “In my mind, I see myself breaking my sacred vows, running away with you. Entirely myself.”


End file.
